Cacophony
by Scullysfan
Summary: Sometimes silence is the loudest sound one will ever hear...


Title: Cacophony  
Author: Scullysfan  
Classification: VRA  
Rating: PG-13  
Distribution: Do not archive at Gossamer. I'll take care of   
ATXC myself. Anyone else, please ask first. Thanks. : )  
  
Disclaimer: The characters of Mulder and Scully are the   
property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. They are not   
mine and no copyright infringement is intended. Barbara, who is  
=indeed= a character, belongs to me.  
  
Summary: Sometimes silence is the loudest sound one will ever  
hear.   
  
Author's thanks and notes at the end.  
  
  
Feedback: Any and all comments longed for at   
Scullysfan@aol.com.   
  
  
For Marguerite who has had a cacophony of her own lately, and  
for Lydia and Skip whose valor has amazed me.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
  
In one moment, silence closed over her like murky river water.  
Until that pregnant second gave birth to never-ending hours, she  
had no idea silence could be loud, threatening to deafen her  
with its clatter.   
  
Screeching tires. The squeak of sports cars' horns clashing  
with the bellow of diesel engines.  
  
The sound of her own breath being ripped from her lungs.   
  
The sickening thump made as killing machine met human.   
  
Wailing sirens, barking bulldogs costumed in the blue of D.C.'s  
finest, voices shooting vital signs like spitfire -- dissonant  
sounds drowned out by a deluge of silence.   
  
Rumbling wheels speeding on asphalt accompanied the strained  
tune of a creaking stretcher. Hurried hands tore open plastic  
containers of sterile gauze, even as instruments fell clanking  
to the floor, cymbals in a bizarre score.   
  
Beeping a warning, the ambulance backed into the emergency  
department's unloading bay at George Washington University  
Hospital. Bodies and equipment and gurney disappeared into  
still more bodies, equipment, and gurneys -- the noise of a new  
arrival swallowed up by even more raucous sounds.   
  
She heard none of it.   
  
Monotone voices instructed signatures to be placed ...here ...  
and here. Right there. Date it, please. Papers rustled like  
crackling leaves in an October breeze. A stapler married the  
pages with a loud blessing. Humming, the copy machine impressed  
insurance cards onto the memory of cheap paper.   
  
You can wait over there. Through those double doors. The  
doctor will be out as soon as she has something to tell you.  
  
The carpeted waiting area dulled clomping footsteps, though  
they would have gone unnoticed anyway. Jerry Springer's guests  
screeched from an ancient television perched high in the corner  
of the room. Vinyl chairs and bare legs made an obscene pair.   
In the middle of it all, a hulk of a man wept like a child --  
great gasping sobs that masked the quiet tears of the teenagers  
surrounding him and the murmurs of an emergency resident  
offering comfort he did not have to give.   
  
And still silence reigned.   
  
It refused to abdicate its throne even for a head of state --  
head of neurology, that is. Her voice, brisk and confident,  
broke through the racket in the waiting room. I'm Dr. Pat  
Bank. Let me get you caught up on where we stand. Suddenly a  
hailstorm of ugly words fell on ineffectual ears, seeping only  
into a brain that understood them all too well.   
  
...relatively insignificant internal injuries... broken  
ribs... bruised kidney... don't anticipate problems there.   
However... moderate to severe cerebral contusion... CT scan...  
swelling in the motor cortex... may experience weakness.... know  
more when... coma... hours or days... have to wait.  
  
Following those unwelcome words, thirty more minutes of  
eternity and a lonely walk down freshly waxed hallways brought  
silence to dwell in a tiny curtained-off cubicle in an intensive  
care unit that rivaled the activity and clamor of Dulles on  
Memorial Day weekend.   
  
Hours passed serenaded by the steady beep sounding out each  
coveted heartbeat, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes rushing to  
the death rattle gurgling up from the throat of the man on the  
other side of the curtain. Shouts for epinephrine, an eighteen  
gauge needle... grim, flat pronouncement of an expiration --  
they should have disturbed, if not the patient lying in this  
cubicle, at least the loved one sitting by the bedside.   
  
Closed ears refused to hear such harshness, to pick up  
insignificant sounds. They were tuned to one frequency and one  
alone.   
  
Sitting there beside the bed, one small hand pressed against a  
larger, limp one, eyes flitting from heart monitor to yet  
another device measuring intracranial pressure to a face lax in  
unwilling sleep, ears sought the only sound that could possibly  
break the silence smothering Dana Scully.   
  
Fox Mulder's voice.   
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
  
Dr. Bank stopped by frequently to check on her patient,  
reassuring Scully that the areas of the brain controlling  
respiration and cardiac function had been unaffected, so Mulder  
had no need for a respirator. They were administering  
medication to decrease the swelling. A close eye was being kept  
on his output, just in case that bruised kidney proved to be  
more of a problem than they'd originally thought. Everything  
that could be done, had been. All they had to do was wait for  
him to come out of it.   
  
Scully let Dr. Bank's final words wash over her. We just have  
to wait for him to come out of it. And he =would= come out of  
it.   
  
Leaning forward to rest her elbows on the bed alongside  
Mulder's hip, she brushed fingertips back and forth across his  
right hand, carefully skirting the tiny needle taped there.   
  
"Mulder?"  
  
If his voice was the only sound capable of shattering her  
silence, perhaps the reverse was true. Determined to do better  
than her first shaky whisper, she tried again.  
  
"Mulder, I know you're in there. It's time for you to come out  
now. Are you..."  
  
The beginnings of a one-sided interrogation were interrupted by  
the arrival of one of his nurses. Barbara had already proven  
herself to be quick of wit and action, straight-talking and  
blessedly unobtrusive. Moving briskly, she changed out an empty  
bottle of IV meds for a full one, and with a check of the needle  
in the hand Scully held and a pat to her shoulder, she was gone.   
  
Though she didn't expect anyone to come in right away, she  
still stood up and leaned over, putting her mouth close to his  
ear, unwilling for him to think she had words for anyone but  
him.   
  
"Mulder... I have a proposition to make to you. You and I both  
know we're equally reluctant to let each other have the last  
word. Now don't laugh at me in there. But I promise, if you  
will hurry and wake up, I'll let you have the last word in what  
we were discussing before..."   
  
She cleared her throat, trying to drive away the tears  
gathering in it. ".... just before. You hear me? I'll listen  
this time. But you'd better hurry. This isn't an unlimited  
offer."  
  
Her lips curving into a soft smile, she turned her head until  
she could press them to his cheek, sealing her promise with a  
kiss. Bargain made, she sat back in the chair, his hand still  
trapped in hers and fervently wished for him to take her up on  
it.   
  
The last word. For once, she would willingly let him have it --  
anything to erase from her memory the foreshadowing exclamation  
that fired from her mouth, hitting its target seconds before  
metal met flesh and bone. Shut up, Mulder!  
  
  
They had been arguing, each convinced of the validity of their  
own positions. Despite their disagreement, he had been in a  
good mood -- trying to tease her out of her bad one,  
inadvertently pushing all the wrong buttons until something  
snapped. Her response had been one common to anyone growing up  
with several siblings, the search for peace and quiet ever  
elusive. It was said without thinking -- tinged with a modicum  
of amusement and soaked in exasperation. Shut up, Mulder!  
  
She had ordered his silence, and he had turned back to respond,  
his grin fading even as his long legs carried him off the curb  
ahead of her. Distracted by her words, he'd never seen the  
speeding BMW, but she had -- she had watched it slam into him,  
throwing his body up onto the hood of the car from where it  
slid onto the street, his head snapping back from its hard  
impact.   
  
The memory sent an involuntary tremor through her body, and  
disentangling her hand from his, she stood up, deciding that  
inactivity invited unwanted scenes into her mind.   
  
So she paced, and she straightened the already straight sheet,  
stopping now and then to rest her hand on him -- to feel the  
warmth of his leg under the palm of her hand, to grasp a muscled  
forearm, to let her fingernails rasp over the stubble on his  
jaw. And she recalled times when hearing him had superseded  
even their usual methods of communication. The power of touch  
and the subtlety of words exchanged through expressive eyes were  
all well and good, but sometimes even she craved reassurance  
that her world with him wasn't a silent one.   
  
Even the little things once barely noticed sparked a new  
appreciation and a desire to hear them again:  
  
  
The crack of a splintering sunflower seed as he rolled it  
between his teeth -- stray shells in her carpet would seem a  
small price to pay right now.   
  
Breathing labored from a brutal run -- sweat stains could be  
washed from couch cushion covers.  
  
Shouts of triumph for every hard-earned Knicks basket -- she  
could read the journal article when the game was over.   
  
Guttural groans voiced into the side of her neck, his face  
pressed there as his lower body pumped erratically into hers --  
soon they would become a whispered litany of encouragement as  
his fingers brought her to the same completion.  
  
  
Lightly rubbing a Q-tip soaked in a lemony solution across his  
lips, she remembered the first words that mouth ever spoke to  
her.   
  
Nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted!  
  
Just a little arrogant, and very determined to frighten her  
away, he had amused and intrigued her with tales of alien  
abductions and had touched her with the story of a lost little  
girl, told in a low voice to candlelight dancing with rivulets  
of rain on the window.   
  
For seven years his voice had carried sometimes wonder,  
sometimes defeat, but always a regard for her. A regard  
composed of the melody of respect, admiration, need, and love,  
played by a flawed but equally loved instrument.  
  
And she missed it. The silence caused by a voiceless Mulder  
had her mirthlessly wondering how long it took to learn sign  
language.   
  
Tossing the cotton swab in the wastebasket, Scully carefully  
lowered the guard rail at the side of his bed and gingerly  
perched on the mattress. She braced one arm on the other side  
of his body and leaned toward him. "Mulder, when you wake up  
and feel well enough, I want you to tell me another story. I  
want it to be just like last night. Remember?"  
  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Working overtime against the unseasonably muggy heat, Scully's  
air conditioner had made her bedroom a chilly contrast to the  
outdoors. Nestled under a couple of blankets and one of her  
grandmother's quilts, she breathed deeply of the crisp air  
outside their cocoon as she scooted more fully into the nook  
Mulder's body formed behind her.   
  
The long arm draped over her waist tightened in a soft squeeze  
as he sighed and snuffled into the hair behind her ear. She'd  
come to recognize the sound as evidence of contentment and not  
for the first time, it piqued her curiosity.   
  
"Mulder..." Her question wasn't a whisper, knowing it was his  
habit to lie awake well after she had fallen asleep. "...did  
you have a teddy bear when you were a little boy?"  
  
His response carried equal parts confusion and amusement, with  
no answer forthcoming, "What?"  
  
"A teddy bear. You know -- Winnie the Pooh, Paddington... soft  
and cuddly, four limbs, and a snout."  
  
"Is there any special reason you're inquiring about my  
childhood companions?" Lightly, as though hardly at all, he  
skimmed the pads of his fingers over the baby soft skin of her  
forearm where it lay on the bed.  
  
Undeterred by the soothing distraction, she pressed on. "It's  
just... I've noticed a fondness for holding me this way." She  
shrugged. "Seems like something you might have picked up with  
the assistance of a stuffed animal."  
  
His silence sparked the dawning of another revelation. "Or was  
the companion of the living, breathing variety?"  
  
"No! No..." Kisses dropped along the side of her face dulled  
his sharp retort. "... his name was Theodore, and I think he  
kept me sane."  
  
Wrapped in his arms, she let his low, husky voice take her on a  
halting trip back to his twelfth year as he told her of  
Theodore. A light brown, potbellied stuffed bear whose paws  
sported worn spots from being held by the sticky hands of a  
younger sister. She had named him Theodore because that was  
the dressed-up name for Teddy. Hardly a night passed that  
didn't find her curled around him, drawing on the security only  
a child can find in an inanimate object.  
  
Scully strained to hear as his whisper dropped to barely an  
audible breath as he spoke of the night Theodore lay cold in a  
small bed, abandoned by his owner. He had proven to be false  
security after all.   
  
A gentle rocking accompanied the story of a young boy, left  
feeling like so much false security himself, who every night for  
months afterwards, clutched a voiceless bear. Falling asleep to  
the clink of ice cubes against glass, the muffled shouts of  
responsibility and blame and betrayal, he woke early to return  
Theodore to the pink and white eyelet bedspread --twelve year  
old boys didn't cling to their sister's teddy bear.   
  
He didn't say whatever became of the bear, his voice trailing  
off in remembrance and sleep. And she who was twice lost and  
found lay awake, feeling both protected and protective.  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~  
  
  
"Or maybe I'll tell you a story next time, Mulder." She grazed  
his lips with her own, tasting him beneath the tangy lemon. "Did  
you know I had a real rabbit when I was about Emily's age?"  
  
Intent on leaving no inch of his face devoid of her touch, she  
didn't hear Barbara return until she spoke.   
  
"Dr. Scully? It's time to turn him. Why don't you help me?"  
  
Carefully arranging the endless tubes and wires, together she  
and Barbara rolled Mulder to rest on his left side, conveniently  
not the one with the broken ribs and bruised kidney. As Scully  
gathered the sheet to draw it back over him, Barbara moved his  
legs into a bent-at-the-knees position.   
  
At her quizzical look, the solidly built nurse with the salt  
and pepper hair explained, "Having his legs straight would pull  
on his back -- this should be more comfortable for him."  
  
Helping Scully settle the sheet over his still form, she patted  
his hand and said, "There we go. If you'll stand right there  
for a minute, I'll get something to put behind him so he doesn't  
roll back..."  
  
"That's okay. You don't need to get anything -- I...I won't  
let him fall," asserted Scully.   
  
Whether it was the earnestness in her voice or the plea in her  
eyes, she couldn't tell, but Barbara made her way around the  
bed, hardly slowing down to rest her hand on Scully's shoulder  
as she left, throwing a good-natured command over her shoulder.   
  
"Okay, but don't let Dr. Bank catch you!"  
  
Grinning to herself, she kept one hand on his back as she toed  
off her shoes and cautiously sat on the bed, swinging her legs  
up so she could lie down. Tunneling the arm closest to the bed  
between his neck and the pillow, she wrapped her other arm high  
across his chest, making sure to avoid tender ribs. She rested  
her forehead against the back of his neck and fitted her hips to  
his, the tops of her feet grazing the backs of his calves.   
  
Resting that way, holding him securely in her arms, the silence  
ceased to be as frightening -- a peace washed over her, bringing  
lassitude in its wake. The rhythmic beat of his heart against  
her chest kept time with its electronic counterpart, laughter  
rang from the nurses' desk -- Barbara's rising above all others,  
the soft and confident prayers of the tall chaplain with the  
sweet, sympathetic face on the other side of the curtain all  
conspired to lull Scully further into the soundless void in  
which she had existed for untold hours.   
  
Had her whole being not been on alert for it, she might have  
dozed on, but slumber was no match for the faint rasp of  
silence's disintegration.   
  
"Scu...Scully... did you... did you have a teddy bear... when  
you were little?"  
  
  
END  
  
  
  
Author's notes: Stalkerfic and spoonfic all rolled into one --  
don't worry, I'll get spooning out of my system eventually. ; )  
This particular story was sparked by Scully's question ("Mulder,  
did you have a teddy bear when you were a little boy?") popping  
into my head while I was reading a wonderful little book sent to  
me by my best friend (Hi, Kris!). "The Art of Spooning" is  
sweet and funny and will tell you everything you ever wanted to  
know about spooning. Once I had the spooning scene set in my  
mind, I decided it needed to be a memory in order for me to make  
this a stalk of Marguerite. Scully's playful, but exasperated  
"Mulder, shut up!" in "Trevor" made me wonder how she would feel  
if those were the last words she ever said to him -- no matter  
how little ill intent they carried, I could imagine her wishing  
them back.   
  
The character of Barbara and the barely mentioned chaplain are,  
I'll admit, Mary Sues by blood -- Mom and Dad resemble their  
characters remarkably well in real life. g  
  
Author's thanks: To LuvMulder for answering questions and  
pointing me in the right direction for cool things I could do to  
Mulder's noggin. To Lisa and Jill for mush checks. To Laney  
for nudging and editing. 


End file.
